


blinding lights

by Anemoi



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22327231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: post Liverpool/Manchester United 1/19/20
Relationships: Dejan Lovren/Mohamed Salah
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56





	blinding lights

**Author's Note:**

> *dejan voice* what the writer wanted to say? That he is strong? Body fat? He wants me to get on my knees and worship him? Goal?

Mohamed catches him looking, because of course he does. 

Dejan never expected Mohamed to show up at his front door so late after a game, but then again he supposed he’s never been good at predicting Mohamed. He expected Mohamed to be out with the rest of the team, celebrating. Dejan’s not bitter, except he is. But he’s forgotten that Mohamed doesn’t play along with the expected rules, and that’s why he’s here, sitting in Dejan’s living room, looking up from his phone to catch Dejan staring. Dejan thinks, _I’m not a very good host._

“What do you want,” Mohamed says, half joking, half serious. 

Dejan doesn’t let himself think about it. That’s his flaw, he knows, the tendency to spiral and overthink, and he’s always better off when he doesn’t have time for that. When he only has time for reaction. 

“You,” he says. 

Mohamed smiles, like he’s expecting this, and perhaps he is. Perhaps Dejan’s just predictable, unable to hide anything he feels, doggedly pursuing, off his fucking head all the time- The heat rushes to his face and he turns away, swearing a little. Dejan knows what he wants but he’ll be damned if he could open his mouth and ask for it. But Mohamed reaches out. Puts a hand under Dejan’s chin and tilts it, holds his face still until Dejan’s forced to look at him, downward through shuttered lashes. 

Mohamed looks beautiful. Dejan stares at him because he can’t let himself look away. It’d be a crime, the way Mohamed’s looking- the way Mohamed commands appreciation, almost, holding himself apart and letting Dejan in, and Dejan’s confused, _not for the first time_ , Dejan needs a sure sign and everything spelled out in lights. 

“Come on,” Dejan says, softly. His lips are dry and he fights the urge to lick them. Mohamed’s hand shifts; he pulls Dejan down, swift, and he’s done it again, flitted by Dejan and left Dejan sprawled on the pitch, helpless. Mohamed’s mouth warm against his own, lips parting, everything turning into fire. 

Mohamed pulls back and Dejan opens his eyes, the room is far too bright now for reasons he can’t even fathom. He feels the coolness in the space between him and Mohamed and wants to pull Mohamed back in, just to extinguish any suggestion of distance. 

“Do you have a bed,” Mohamed asks, very seriously. Deadpan. He’s not even smiling. Dejan wants to punch him, and he does, gently, a fist to Mohamed’s stomach which turns into his palm flat against Mohamed’s stomach, and perhaps he’ll concede this time, perhaps Mohamed does have slightly more defined abs- 

Before he really understood what he’s doing Dejan’s on his knees, undoing Mohammed’s jeans with clumsy hands. He wonders why buttons are so impossible on someone else when he doesn’t even need to think about undoing them on himself, looking at his fingers fumbling like he’s detached from his own body. 

“Dejan?” Mohamed laughs, choked off, fingers trailing down the side of Dejan’s face. “So you don’t have bed?” 

Dejan looks up at him, and even through the haze of lust he can see Mohamed’s exhausted, though his eyes were still bright. He gets up and shoves Mohamed over the top of his couch, Mohamed startling a shout and landing on the cushions, sprawled, laughing and breathless. 

“Ow,” Mohamed says, digging out a remote from under his back and tossing it onto the coffee table. “Be _gentle_. Even when you can’t give your guest a proper bed, at least be gentle-” 

Dejan rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling when he walks around to Mohamed’s side and kisses him again, buries a hand in his hair- it’s still slightly wet from the showers, denser than usual, softer than it has any right to be. 

He pulls back this time, but only to say, “Tell me.” 

Mohamed raises an eyebrow. “What.” 

Dejan sighs. He wants to say, _everything. Make it clear. Never leave me. What are we doing?_

He doesn’t say any of that. He gives himself a pat on the back for resisting. Dejan says, “Tell me what you want me to do.” 

Mohamed groans, flinging an arm over his face theatrically, dropping his head back onto the cushions. He peeks at Dejan from under his arm, but Dejan’s serious. Dejan’s good at acting serious, anyway, even though Mohamed can probably tell where the cracks show in Dejan’s facade. He doesn’t know how Mohamed’s become so adept at telling the signs, doesn’t know what that means for the future- 

“How do the English say it again,” Mohamed says thoughtfully, “Suck me off.” 

He says it very slowly, so the three words almost lose meaning semi detached from each other. Dejan tugs Mohamed’s jeans down, and then his underwear, watching Mohamed’s skin goosepimple when Dejan swipes his thumb over his hips. 

Mohamed bites back a curse. Dejan slides his hands over Mohamed’s thighs, willing himself to go slow, even though he’s sure he’s shaking with just the effort. Mohamed’s already hard when Dejan reaches for his dick, and Dejan sighs when he finally takes him in his mouth. He goes too fast almost instantly, because it’s too easy to open his mouth and let Mohamed slide his cock in deeper, and Mohamed does, and when Dejan chances a look up Mohamed’s biting his knuckles. Their eyes meet, and there’s this teetering second of hysteria, a second where even though they’re further along the path than they’ve ever been it would have been all too easy for Dejan to barrel them off. Instead Dejan closes his eyes. He grips Mohamed’s cock and wraps an arm around Mohamed’s thigh, feeling his muscles tense and flex and his hips arch, involuntary, pushing his cock further into Dejan’s throat. Dejan swallows, and Mohamed moans. His hand had fallen away from his mouth and he’s grappling, weakly, at Dejan’s head, tugging gently on his ear and falling to his shoulder, trying to find purchase. Dejan concentrates, trying not to think of his own throbbing dick pushing painfully against his sweatpants. He wants this to be good for Mohamed. He _needs_ this to be good for Mohamed- 

“Dejan,” Mohamed says. It’s two syllables and Mohamed’s accent means it always sounded different to Dejan. Distinct from everyone else. Dejan shudders, his hand speeding up on Mohamed’s cock, and it’s messy, now, he knows he’s gotten drool everywhere and his jaw’s aching with the effort- and Mohamed gasps. It’s a sharp sound, and Dejan almost pulls off, from the surprise, but not before Mohamed comes. It tastes salt and bitter, not quite like swallowing seawater, stronger than sweat slicked over skin. 

“Did you-” Mohamed asks, staring at Dejan. Not much had ever made him blush in the years Dejan’s known him. Mohamed wasn’t shy, after all the layers and fronts he puts up in front of strangers. But he stares a bit, embarrassed, almost. 

Dejan shrugs. “I’m not spitting on my own carpet.” 

Mohamed laughs. He pulls Dejan onto the couch, slides a hand into Dejan’s boxers. Mohamed kisses him, not caring when he tastes himself in Dejan’s mouth, hand moving almost expertly on Dejan’s cock. Dejan buries his face against Mohamed’s neck and tastes his skin there, feeling Mohamed shrink back and laugh, the vibrations from his chest to his hand on Dejan’s cock, and it’s too much, the closeness of him- the very presence and brightness and _thereness_ of Mohamed makes Dejan gasp and tense. He comes so fast and hard it feels like a punch. 

Afterwards they stay entangled, for a bit, Dejan watching the rise and fall of Mohamed’s chest from half shut eyes. He’s not sure why Mohamed’s still here, Mohamed usually fastidious about cleanliness and yet he’s still here, sweaty and messy and pressed against Dejan. Dejan wants to shut off his thoughts, so he props himself on an arm and says, “Mo? Are you asleep?” 

Mohamed doesn’t answer, and Dejan manoeuvres around to look at his face. His eyelids gently fluttering and he’s breathing all deep and easy. Of course he fell asleep. Dejan traces one finger against Mohamed’s collarbone, runs it down the groove of Mohamed’s chest. 

“You like?” Mohamed says, voice hoarse. He cracks an eye open and looks at Dejan, fond. That’s what it is, Dejan thinks. He looks fond. He doesn’t know why he’s avoided that realisation for so long, blind to himself. 

He gets up and pulls Mohamed’s hand, gently. “I have a bed. Upstairs. Come on.” 

“Okay,” Mohamed says, feigning grumpiness. But he grips Dejan’s hand and he doesn’t let go, and he follows Dejan upstairs. 

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has as much substance as [the song by the Weeknd](https://soundcloud.com/theweekndblinlights/blinding-lights-1) and i will blame it on the absolute sugar high of beating your rivals in the face n ass 
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


End file.
